


A Morning Dance

by Osprayhurricane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 17:54:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17854388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osprayhurricane/pseuds/Osprayhurricane





	A Morning Dance

Sherlock rouses slowly back into consciousness, with his head still slightly fuzzy, the cotton still there.

 

The effects of Irene's drugs are powerful indeed, or perhaps he's simply more prone to their effects since he's been trying to be good and stopped doing drugs. Trying to be good for John.

 

_John._

 

Speaking of the soldier, Sherlock can't help but notice that while he's in his own bed, he isn't alone.

 

 

“Sherlock!” John started awake. He was in his own bed, but…

“Shhhh, I’m here, John.” The sexy baritone came from just above John’s ear. “Nightmare?”

John considered that for a moment. He’d been dreaming, but it wasn’t about the war, or about Sherlock falling. No, he’d been dreaming about a small, whitewashed cottage in the country. And bees.

Bees?

“No, actually,” John replied happily. “No nightmare tonight.”

He wriggled a little, realizing that he was nestled quite securely in Sherlock’s arms. He was sprawled over the taller man, his head resting against the warmth of Sherlock’s neck, one leg draped over his hips and one arm tucked in around his ribs.

“I-I’m sorry,” John stammered, feeling a bit embarrassed at having so completely wrapped himself around Sherlock. He started to pull back, moving his leg. “I know I promised no sleeping.”

Sherlock moved one hand to clasp John’s leg in place, rubbing the thigh affectionately. “You promised you wouldn’t try to make _me_ sleep. You were tired—quite understandable. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Long fingers carded through John’s hair. John sighed in spite of himself and relaxed into the caress. The last thing he remembered was each of them taking a quick trip to the loo after he’d sucked Sherlock to an explosive orgasm. Everything after that was a little unclear.

“How long have I been out?”

“Two hours and forty-four minutes.” Sherlock’s voice sounded strange.

“I’m sorry,” John muttered. “What time is it?”

“Don’t be sorry, John,” Sherlock said flatly. “It’s nearly five.”

John pulled back so he could see Sherlock’s face. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock nodded, staring over John’s shoulder out the window.

John dropped his head back against Sherlock’s collarbone and kissed his neck, feeling guilty. “What have you been doing while I slept?”

“Not much.” Sherlock nudged John’s shoulders with his arm, as a reminder that his range of motion had been severely limited for the duration of John’s nap.

John chuckled, stroking his hand over Sherlock’s chest. “All right, then, what have you been thinking about?” It was obscene how quickly he had become addicted to the feel and touch and taste of the man beneath him. Probably shouldn’t have come as such a shock, John supposed—he’d been addicted to his flatmate in every other way since they met.

“Estimating your sperm count given your age and general health, and the viscosity and temperature of your ejaculate.”

“Sexy.”

“I was also reviewing my observations from the case.”

John waited. “Anything else?”

“I was thinking about a great many things, John.”

“But didn’t you—weren’t you wanting to—” John found himself feeling suddenly and strangely awkward.

“Wasn’t I wanting to what, John?” The deep voice sounded very amused now.

John blushed; grateful Sherlock couldn’t see his face. “To fuck me?”

The hand on John’s thigh moved with purpose now, sliding up and over his hip. Fingers teased over the crest of John’s bum, hesitating there. “Do you want me to?”

John couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a trace of insecurity—that infinitesimal shred of self-doubt that John had always believed Sherlock was working very hard to hide from everyone. He pulled up, propping on his elbow so he could look down into the changeable eyes. He placed one hand against the side of Sherlock’s neck, caressing his lover’s jaw with his thumb.

“More than anything.”

Sherlock released a heavy breath, locking his hand behind John’s neck and dragging him down to his mouth. Sherlock rolled John over until they were lying face to face on their sides. Sherlock slipped a hand between them and pinched John’s nipple, which earned him a nip on his lower lip. He growled and John chuckled again.

Sherlock rolled again so that John was on his back. Sherlock teased John’s mouth with his tongue as he lightly stroked John’s side down from his armpit. John squeaked and recoiled.

“What?” Sherlock withdrew, immediately concerned. “Have I hurt you?”

John bit his lip, trying to decide whether or not to speak.

“John!”

“I’m ticklish, there, all right?”

Sherlock’s head cocked to one side. “Ticklish? Oh, I see. So when I touch you like this…” He grazed his fingertips over John’s ribs and John tried to pull away.

“NO!!! Don’t! Sherlock, please!”

“Or like this?” Sherlock repeated the action on John’s other side—the doctor was writhing under him, fortuitously pressing his body against Sherlock’s burgeoning erection.

“Stop—git!!”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock said with a wicked grin. His fingers danced over John’s sensitive skin as John slapped at and tried to evade them, panting and giggling hysterically.

John shifted, throwing Sherlock off balance. He shoved the taller man hard and Sherlock fell to one side. John took advantage with a shout, climbing over him and catching his arms above his head. Sherlock struggled a little, succeeding only in grinding his rapidly hardening cock into John’s thigh. John held him fast, pinning him effectively to the mattress.

“Now, then,” John crooned, leaning down for a kiss. “There will be no more of that, will there?”

Sherlock shook his head, his smile fading; the expression on his face changed as his eyes darkened.

“Sherlock? What is it?”

“I—” Sherlock’s voice was ragged. “This, John. I want this, too.”

“What? To be pinned down…ohhhh.” John trailed off as understanding dawned.

“I want to feel you on top of me, inside me, taking control of me. I want all of it.”

John felt his cock respond. He wanted it, too. Everything. Always. _Oh, god, please, always._

“But I need to be inside you tonight—need to feel you around me. If this is going to be the only time we...”

John shook his head. “Sherlock, it…” He tried to complete the thought—that this thing between them didn’t have to end tonight—but was stopped by soft lips covering his own.

“Please, John.”

It was a whisper. A plea. And John had never been very good at saying no to Sherlock.

John returned the kiss, slanting his lips over Sherlock’s with all of the longing he felt. It was more than desire. The kiss was full of tenderness and concern and just a little desperation. Sherlock, too—he clung to John as though he were going to disappear.

Finally, Sherlock pulled back, breathless. “John. I—I need to…prepare you.”

“Uh, right,” John acknowledged, trying to remember what that blog had said. “Like before.”

“Yes. More, but yes. It may take some time. And it may be uncomfortable.”

“I know.” John smiled down at him. “It’s okay.”

Sherlock regarded John with a strange expression. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Then you should probably visit the loo first and…”

“I—uhm—yes, I did read about—I should just…do…that.” John blushed again, not minding so much this time that Sherlock was watching. Sherlock’s face was also quite red as John shifted to the side of the bed and stood. He was about to walk away when he hesitated and leaned back in to kiss Sherlock’s mouth softly.

“Back soon,” he whispered.

He padded down to the loo, whistling—whistling?—and running over the instructions from that blog he’d read. He was still a bit nervous about the whole thing, but he was also pretty turned on by the thought of Sherlock waiting upstairs for him.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling very clean indeed, John returned upstairs. Sherlock was kneeling in the centre of the bed looking tense and uncomfortable, staring out the window at the pre-dawn sky.

“I thought you’d…” he started, turning as John approached. He looked at the mattress. “I thought you might have had second thoughts.”

“Nope.” John knelt on the bed in front of Sherlock and stroked his hand through the unruly curls—he really was developing something of a fetish for the man’s hair. Sherlock leaned into the caress, eyes closed.

“I want you, John. So much.”

“I know.”

“But I…”

“What?”

Sherlock sighed. “John, even I know this is too much to ask.”

John leaned in for a kiss. “I’ve killed for you, you lunatic,” he whispered against the other man’s mouth. “And you didn’t even ask me. Why don’t you let me worry about what is too much?”

Sherlock ghosted his tongue over John’s. “I’ll make it good for you.”

“I know you will. I know you’d never hurt me,” John mused. “Drug my coffee and lock me in a dark lab and try to scare me to death, maybe…”

“John,” Sherlock growled, pulling him closer.

John slid sideways to stretch out on the bed on his back, drawing Sherlock down over him. Their kisses were slower now. Patient. Loving. Sherlock stroked John’s mouth deliberately, thrusting gently in emulation of the act to come. He nipped at John’s lips, sucked at them, searched John’s mouth with his tongue.

John allowed himself the pleasure of letting someone else fully take the sexual lead. He responded, voiced his pleasure at each touch, and stroked the pale skin. He cried Sherlock’s name as the man’s hand closed around his cock, stroking firmly.

“John, you are perfect,” Sherlock murmured against his cheek. “Why? Why are letting me do this?"

"Sherlock, I—” John swallowed hard. Not yet. Too soon. _Don’t show your hand, Watson_. “Just do. Just feel.” He stroked a hand over the lean, muscular chest, teasing the dusky nipples.

Sherlock groaned. He pulled back to look into John’s eyes. “This…it might be easier…”

John stroked his cheek. “Hands and knees?”

Sherlock nodded, his brows drawing together. John smiled at the detective’s puzzled face. He leaned up for a reassuring kiss before pushing Sherlock up so he could roll over. John slid onto his belly then drew up onto his elbows with his knees bent under him and spread wide. With his bum in the air, he was completely exposed. He shivered a little, both from the chill of the cool air over a very warm part of his body and from the feeling of vulnerability being in this position engendered.

He glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock was kneeling behind him now, lips slightly parted. Their eyes met as he began coating his fingers with lube. John swallowed hard.

Sherlock leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on the small of John’s back, stroking his slick digits through John’s warm cleft. John willed his body to relax as the first finger began to press home.

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock eased the finger in, hesitating as John tightened a little. He stroked John’s back for a few moments until John could feel his body releasing. The finger eased in until John could feel Sherlock’s hand against him. He breathed deeply, allowing himself to get used to the sensation again. There was no pain this time, only a little discomfort as his body readjusted. Sherlock twisted the digit and began to draw it out again. John sighed at the unexpected pleasure of the movement.

Sherlock entered him again, this time twisting and curling his finger to graze over John’s prostate.

“Oh, god, oh, god..” John moaned. His cock—which had gone somewhat flaccid—pulsed to life against his belly.

Sherlock continued to fuck him gently with just one finger for several minutes. John soon found himself pressing back into each stroke.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” They were both panting now.

“More. Please. More.”

Sherlock withdrew his hand. John heard him applying more lube and then felt the unmistakable pressure of two fingers against his anus. The fingertips pressed through the ring of muscle. John grunted a little at the additional burn, feeling Sherlock pause immediately. Sherlock kissed his back again, sliding his other hand around John’s waist to seek his cock. Sherlock stroked him gently, muttering something John could not understand—was it in French?

John felt his body easing around the intrusion. He slid back slowly onto Sherlock’s hand, the other man holding very still and allowing him to move when he was ready. He pushed back until he felt the second knuckles at his entrance. He grunted again at the stretch, but continued carefully. He shivered as he felt the fingers slip inside his body as far as they would go. It burned, and yet…it was so fucking good.

He’d had no idea—no idea at all.

Sherlock continued to stroke his shaft, but allowed John to control the depth and pace of penetration. John rocked forward, Sherlock’s hand sliding out of his now-slick passage briefly before John eased back again, taking him in.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was broken, desperate.

“Shhhh,” Sherlock gently twisted and spread his fingers inside John, stretching the muscles. “Take your time.”

John reached back and tugged at Sherlock’s wrist. “Fuck me—please!”

Sherlock immediately complied, slowly withdrawing and then pressing home again. He continued working against John’s tight ring of muscle as he did.

John met that thrust, and the next, surprised by how quickly the mild discomfort dissipated. His entire body ached with want, his internal muscles clenching around Sherlock’s fingers as his cock continued leaking with Sherlock’s ministrations. He moved faster, grinding against the invasion of his body, desperate for more.

This continued for some time—John had no idea how long. He was lost to the new, overwhelming sensations. Eventually he was vaguely aware of Sherlock withdrawing his hand again. John protested, only to be rewarded by the slight sting of a third finger breaching him.

“Sherlock—I can’t—oh god—”

Sherlock stilled with only the tips inside John. “It’s all right.”

John circled his hips, trying to find some way to ease the pressure. He felt Sherlock’s lips against his neck as the taller man leaned over him, whispering something in his ear. French again.

“What…?”

“It means ‘you are precious to me’,” Sherlock said softly. He twisted the fingers inside John’s entrance gently, easing ever so slightly further in.

John grunted. “Wait!”

Sherlock stopped immediately. “What is it?”

John panted. His head was spinning—his body was telling him to evacuate his rectum, but his brain…oh, fuck, he wanted more.

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock said, clearly realizing what John was experiencing. “It’s perfectly natural. Just relax.”

John’s thighs were quivering with the strain of holding still. He could feel the urge passing and his muscles beginning to relax again. “Okay,” he sighed. He glanced at Sherlock over his shoulder, surprised by the concern in the younger man’s eyes. “I’m fine now—please…”

“Yes,” Sherlock leaned in suddenly and awkwardly placed a heated kiss on John’s mouth. “Yes.”

The hand began to move again. John muttered something not even he understood as his body instinctively pushed into it. Sherlock fucked him for long minutes. John sighed and swore; unable to control what Sherlock was making him feel.

Finally, the wonderful fullness disappeared.

“What? No—please.” He didn’t have the strength to feel embarrassed by the pleading tone in his voice.

Strong hands guided him back to rest on his heels. John relaxed into the strong chest behind him as Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him and warm lips caressed his neck.

“Are you ready?”

“Fuck, yes,” John moaned.

Sherlock tugged once more on John’s leaking cock before pulling away. “Slide back,” the deep voice commanded.

John shuffled into the spot Sherlock had occupied as the man moved gracefully around and in front of him. Sherlock settled against the headboard, facing John. He slid his feet between John’s knees and stretched out his long legs. He extended his hands and John took them.

“This will be easier for you,” Sherlock insisted.

He drew John forward into his lap and up onto his feet into a squatting position. John nodded, still feeling somewhat overwhelmed and a little helpless. He allowed himself to be positioned over Sherlock’s rigid, red cock. He grasped the headboard above Sherlock’s shoulders, steadying himself as he watched Sherlock coat himself with more lube and quickly wipe his hands.

Sherlock took him by his hips and leaned up to kiss him again. “In your own time.”

John gave a weak smile. “But quite quickly?”

Sherlock smiled, kissing him again. “No, John. It’s all up to you now.”

John eased himself down, leaning into Sherlock’s strong hands as he reached around with one of his own to guide Sherlock to his entrance. He felt the slick tip nudging him and his legs began to tremble. This was more than the fingers—it was going to hurt. He flinched a little as the head slid into his body.

“Oh!” His eyes flew open in surprise at the slight popping sensation.

Sherlock moaned, head thrown back as he began to slide into John’s body. “John, you feel so good…”

John held on, struggling as his body adjusted. There was some pain this time; he didn’t want to rush.

Sherlock reached out and continued stroking John’s cock. “Easier if you bear down,” he panted.

John nodded, understanding. He strained against the intrusion, triggering the nerves that helped to release the sphincter. Sherlock’s throbbing heat began to slide home.

They gasped together as John inched down onto Sherlock’s waiting prick. The pressure, the fullness was inexplicable. John could not help crying out as he finally felt Sherlock’s balls against his arse. Sherlock was inside him—completely inside him.

They stared at one another for a long moment before mouths and tongues met. Sherlock moaned into his mouth as John eased himself up and then back down again.

“Sherlock—so good, I can’t…”

Sherlock seemed to understand, restoring his grip on both John’s hips to help lift and lower him, rocking his own hips up to meet him. John released one hand from the headboard to fist his own cock as the discomfort began to fade and pleasure take over. He moved faster, dropping harder and clenching slightly as he withdrew each time, eliciting a hiss from the man beneath him. Sherlock continued to support him as he rode the younger man with increasing abandon.

Sherlock’s brow was glistening with sweat, his mouth parted in an unspoken sigh. John watched him, incredibly turned on by the unguarded desire on his lover’s face.

“So beautiful,” he breathed.

They kissed tenderly, Sherlock moaning into his mouth. John shifted slightly, managing to stimulate his prostate as he sank down.

“FUCK!” His legs collapsed and he fell into Sherlock’s lap in a heap, completely boneless. He leaned in to rest against Sherlock’s chest. “More, Sherlock. Please—I need more.”

Sherlock growled, grasping John hard enough to leave bruises as he rolled them over, pinning John beneath him. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s ribs as the other man braced on his hands above him. Sherlock re-entered him quickly, hardly losing pace as he began to fuck John with intention.

There was nothing gentle in the rhythm anymore. They were both too far gone for that now. John clutched at Sherlock’s triceps, digging his fingers into the lean muscle as he learned how to rotate his hips to find the sweet spot with regularity. He was calling Sherlock’s name—begging to be fucked hard, demanding to be filled. Sherlock lifted John’s hips up to improve the angle, continuing to bury himself to the hilt with each stroke.

John lost all sense of time, of everything. He reached for his own cock again as he felt his release approaching. He stroked in pace with Sherlock.

“Coming—fuck—I have to,” he panted.

Sherlock quickened his pace. John could feel his balls tightening.

“Now, oh, god…”

John felt the breath leave his body as his orgasm overtook him. He couldn’t inhale, couldn’t think—each wave harder and longer than the last. Again and again, his body convulsed as he spilled out over his hand and onto his belly. He cried out as Sherlock continued to thrust into him, brushing his prostate again—his overly sensitive body clamping down in response to the pleasure that was almost too much.

Sherlock howled at the tightening around his cock. With three more hard thrusts, he came, spending himself inside John’s quivering body.

“John, John, John, John, John….” The beautiful voice cracked as Sherlock’s body was wracked by his own release. He buried his face in John’s shoulder, holding fast as the tremors shook him.

John slowly regained awareness. He clung to the lean body shuddering above him as he marvelled at what he had just experienced.

“Sherlock,” he breathed. “That was…I didn’t know—I didn’t know. I—I’ve never come like that in my life. Not with anyone.”

Sherlock was curled over John’s body; his face still buried in John’s shoulder, his slowly softening cock sliding from John’s come-slick passage. He was still shaking, John realized. He eased his legs down from where they had wrapped around Sherlock’s body, his one hand still on Sherlock’s upper arm.

“Are you all right?” John waited, listening for a response and hearing nothing until he suddenly realized that the sounds Sherlock was making were barely suppressed sobs. He was crying. “Sherlock? Wait, no, don’t—it’s okay.”

He drew Sherlock down into the circle of his arms, welcoming the weight of the body as it collapsed on top of him into the sticky evidence of his release between them. But Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. His arms wrapped around John’s torso, his hands sliding underneath so long fingers could cling and press bruises into John’s back. The shuddering breaths vibrated through Sherlock and right into John’s body.

“This was supposed to make you feel better,” John said, a bit helplessly. “What is it? Hmmm? Can you tell me?”

“Never enough.”

“What?”

Sherlock pulled back, his eyes filled with tears, damp streaks trailing to his jaw. “One night. It will never be enough, John. Never.” He buried his head again, unable to hold John’s gaze.

John smiled, winding his fingers into Sherlock’s sweat-dampened curls as the taller man drifted to sleep in his arms.

 

### Chapter Text

John woke slowly, feeling like he’d been drugged (and he had more than a passing familiarity with that sensation). He stretched, wincing a little at his tender bottom and the dull ache of bruises and a few bite marks.

“Sherlock?” He turned to look on the other side of the bed to discover it was empty, the sheets and duvet in a heap where Sherlock had been. His heart sank.

He rolled over and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. There were no new messages. He lay back with his phone in hand, staring at the ceiling.

So that was it.

Of course Sherlock would think nothing of leaving before he woke. The man probably had a kidney in a pickle jar somewhere that needed tending. Or perhaps Dimmock had called with some news about the case.

 

 

### Notes:


End file.
